


Punch Drunk

by ultimateparadox



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Birthday, Felix's 21st Birthday Fight Club, Linhardt has no Respect as Always, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:14:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22823128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultimateparadox/pseuds/ultimateparadox
Summary: Sylvain likes getting drunk on punch, while Felix gets drunk on punching.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Kudos: 19





	Punch Drunk

Sylvain watched with baited breath as Ingrid took a sip from his red solo cup. She hadn’t believed him when he said she wouldn’t want it. The spit take she unleashed was one for the record books. Cursing, she yelled, “Somebody already spiked the punch?” 

Over the synthwave pouring from the speakers, he wasn’t sure who could hear her banshee scream except for him, so he answered, “I think Linhardt did it like twenty minutes ago.”

Pressing the cup back into his hand with enough force to dent the plastic in, Ingrid said in a huff, “Felix doesn’t even like alcohol. I know it’s his big two-one, but I figured these hooligans would at least respect him that much.”

“It’s fruit punch, Ingrid,” Sylvain soothed. “Felix wasn’t going to drink it anyway. Too sweet for his old man teeth.”

“If he’s old, what does that make us?”

“Positively ancient, my dear. You don’t look a day over eighteen, however!”

Ingrid turned her nose up. “Don’t flirt with me on your boyfriend’s birthday. Where did he get to, anyway?”

Taunting Felix with his height was one of Sylvain’s favorite things to do, even when he got called a giraffe for it. From his point of view he could peer over the heads of their little birthday bash congregation, so he set his eyes roaming for one particular individual to no avail. With the dim, blinking lights in the rented beach house, it made differentiating the undulating shadows of the party guests difficult. A static light poured in through a back door, catching his attention in its stillness, and he thought he’d have to check the porch, too.

“I don’t see him, but we both know things are a little loud in here. I’ll check outside in case he’s taking a break,” he told Ingrid, attempting to pass the cup back to her, which she swiftly denied. With a shrug, he guzzled the remains, shaking his head to try and dissipate the bite of too-much-vodka. Whatever Linhardt liked to drink, he meant business with it. 

Stepping onto the back porch was like stepping into another world. The music was muffled as if swept back and away by the fresh breeze, carrying the scent of boardwalk crab huts and salt. Over the fronds of palm trees he could see the strip light up the dark sky, attracting the tourists and the night crowd. Little winding stairs, smoothed over with time and exposure, led down to the beach, empty with the hour. 

Rather, seemingly empty, Sylvain corrected himself. There was a small group amassed near the base of the staircase. Someone erupted into loud cheering, sending the group into a slight dispersal. The porch light carried down to catch off the dark hair of one of them, and Sylvain would recognize his birthday boy anywhere.

Marching down the stairs made him nervous about halfway down when the first spike of alcohol hit. He settled into a squat for a moment, fully prepared to stand back up when he could turn his head and not feel like he’d left his brain behind for half a second. That was when someone took a wild swing at Felix and Sylvain’s feet nearly slipped out from under him in his haste to right himself.

People thought Felix didn’t like to share, and it was mostly true. However, he could certainly share blows without hesitation. Felix’s returning jab sent the crowd whistling, high and energized. Another punch flew his way, slamming into his cheek, but Felix was both an unmovable object and an unstoppable force as he rebounded with an uppercut.

“Jesus!” Felix’s opponent spat with a tight laugh. Sylvain’s brain registered Caspar’s voice before his face, clutching in his hands.

“What in the hell is going on down here?” Sylvain incredulously asked when he finally cleared his treacherous task of Going Downstairs, peering at them. The closer he got to the group he recognized them as more of their friends that had strayed from the party. No one looked angry, not even Felix, whose resting bitch face could frighten the bravest of storybook heroes. 

“Fight Club!” Caspar shouted, dropping his cradling hands to throw up an excited fist. His cheer waned a moment later. “Or, wait, are we not supposed to talk about it…?”

Looking over at Felix, who shrugged and was no help, Sylvain sighed. “Why am I not surprised we’re having a fight club at your birthday party?”

“It was loud,” Felix said like that the only explanation needed. Thinking about it, which was becoming increasingly harder to do, it really was. Felix was not extroverted by any definition. A bass-boosted room full of party beats and spiked punch wasn’t his scene at all, but he'd allowed it to be done for the benefit of their friends that would enjoy it. To really enjoy his party, there had to be different, quieter activities.

Though, to be frank, Sylvain probably wouldn’t have elected to go with “fist fight your friends on the beach” as a quiet party activity. 

“Me next, please!” Petra piped up, stepping into the center circle Sylvain hadn’t realized they’d formed.

“Fe, are you gonna hit a girl?”

“She's volunteering,” he replied. “Why shouldn’t I hit her?”

“I mean...don’t make me call any hospitals, you guys, okay?” Sylvain asked, taking a seat on the ground. Someone tossed a can his way, but he made no effort to catch it, letting it sink into the sand with a heavy _whap_. It was store brand ginger ale. Somewhere, buried under his profound disbelief, he was pleased to see that the drinks weren’t alcoholic where Felix preferred to be. It seemed they respected him, after all.

“He will not be getting me,” Petra assured him with a bright smile. Her confidence was slightly frightening. The pose she formed reminded him of when he’d watched Felix’s boxing practices. “I will not be hurting him very badly.”

“Sit tight,” Felix told him. “I won’t lose.”

Felix’s 21st Birthday Fight Club carried on throughout the night. Sylvain lost track of it some time after Felix got ringed out at his third opponent, and he’d found himself laying back in the sand and staring at the few stars he could see. The raucous boardwalk’s light pollution barely reached the sky out here, and in the dark expanse above he could make up his own constellations. He didn’t notice when the group quieted down and shuffled off, but he did notice the presence settle into place next to him.

“That was fun,” Felix commented, winded and satisfied. His hand snaked down to clutch at Sylvain’s. “Thanks for not stopping us.”

Sylvain dragged their hands up to his lips to kiss. Ignoring the bruising on Felix’s knuckles, he said, “Happy birthday, Felix. Love you.”

With a huff that was more of a laugh than a sigh, Felix replied fondly, “Thank you, Syl. I love you, too.”


End file.
